


Trust

by fengirl88



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 221B Ficlet, Domestic, Established Relationship, Haircuts, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-27
Updated: 2012-09-27
Packaged: 2017-11-14 18:32:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/518256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fengirl88/pseuds/fengirl88
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Seems a pity to cut it,” Lestrade says, pulling and twisting John’s hair just hard enough.  "Still, if you're sure..."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Trust

**Author's Note:**

  * For [innie_darling (innie)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/innie/gifts).



> written in response to innie_darling's request for "John/Lestrade, haircut", and as a fill for the "mirror" square on my cottoncandy_bingo card.
> 
> thanks to thimpressionist for cheerleading and to her and kalypso_v for helpful beta suggestions.

John grimaces at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. “God, I need a haircut.”

“Really?” Lestrade says. He slides his arms around John's waist and kisses the back of his neck where the hair is too long. “I quite like it like this.”

“Mm,” John says, leaning backwards. “Looks a bit scruffy to me.”

Lestrade _blows_ along the hairline, which is most unfair, and another plan to get up bright and early bites the dust.

 

“Seriously, though,” John says, when he gets in from work that evening, “I've got do something about getting it cut. If I go to the reunion looking like this I'll never hear the end of it.”

“What reunion?” Lestrade says.

John's stomach lurches. _Shit_. He was sure he'd told him about that.

“My old regiment,” he says. “I did tell you. Didn't I?”

“Don't think so,” Lestrade says, his face clouding.

“It's not that sort of reunion,” John says, knowing he sounds defensive.

“What sort?” Lestrade says, though they both know he _knows_ what sort. 

Lestrade's stubborn like that. Which makes two of them.

“The sort you can bring a _plus one_ to,” John says.

It's not as if Lestrade takes _him_ every time there's a police do.

“Right,” Lestrade says tightly. “So are you going to tell all your old mates you've got a boyfriend?”

 

*~*~*

 

It's not exactly a row, but neither of them feels much like dinner after that, even though normally John says Lestrade's homemade pasta sauce is better than anything you get at Angelo's. There's nothing good on telly, either, since that 1940s drama finished last week. John almost wishes he was at 221b, with Sherlock picking holes in episodes of _Lewis_ or shouting at reality TV. At least that would be better than this silence between them.

“You know I'm not ashamed –” he begins, just as Lestrade says “Look, I'm sorry –”

They try it again, with exactly the same results: 

“I didn’t think – well, I did –” 

“I should have told you –”

Lestrade starts to laugh. “Come here, you prat,” he says.

John buries his face in Lestrade’s shoulder, which smells comfortingly of leather and wool and washing-powder. “You know how I feel about you,” he says, mostly into Lestrade’s sweater.

“Yeah,” Lestrade says. “Me too.”

He pushes his fingers through John’s hair and scratches gently at his scalp. John sighs and presses closer, relaxing into Lestrade’s touch.

“Seems a pity to cut it,” Lestrade says, pulling and twisting John’s hair just hard enough. “Still, if you’re sure... I could do it for you.”

“ _You_ could?”

“Sure,” Lestrade says, grinning. “I’m a dab hand with a pair of scissors and a pudding basin.”

 

*~*~*

 

“This feels weird,” John says, shifting uneasily.

Lestrade freezes. “You OK?”

“Yeah,” John says.

“You don’t sound very sure.”

“No, I’m – I’m fine, it’s just a bit–” 

Intense? Kinky? He’s not sure how to describe it. 

Every sensation is magnified by the black silk blindfold, the way it always is. The scent of Lestrade, so close behind him. The crisp swish of the scissors. Cold steel and warm fingers brushing against his neck. He swallows.

 

(“Short back and sides?” Lestrade had teased him. “Or something more exotic?”

“If you make me look like a dickhead–” John threatened.

“I won’t,” Lestrade said. “Trust me.”)

 

“Nearly done,” Lestrade says. He sounds hoarse. 

The clippers buzz and John squirms, anticipating that ticklish touch.

“Hold still,” Lestrade warns.

“Easy for you to say,” John says, gripping the chair.

Lestrade doesn’t answer. He’s breathing hard.

“OK,” he says at last. “Want to see?” 

“I can hardly wait,” John says.

Lestrade takes the blindfold off and John stares at the mirror, speechless. He looks good. _Really_ good. 

“Used to cut my sister’s hair,” Lestrade says. “Told you to trust me.”

John pulls him closer and kisses him lingeringly, running his hands down Lestrade’s back.

“I’m glad you joined the police,” he says. “I’d never have met you otherwise. But you missed a great career as a barber.”


End file.
